


Service

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Bondage, Courtship, Embroidery, F/M, Food, Gags, Impact Play, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Oral Sex, Paddling, Pining, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Sensory Deprivation, Service Submission, Size Difference, Spanking, Suspension, Tea, background Dalish/Skinner, background Josephine/Sera, background Krem/Vivienne, background M!Cadash/Dorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-25 13:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12532224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: Bull offers Vivienne service to soothe the loss of Bastien.(Or: control, grief, and pants-on kink with Vivienne/Bull, and pants-off smut with Bull/Blackwall.)





	1. Inconsequential Trivial Shit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redhandsredribbons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhandsredribbons/gifts).



> Prompt: _subby!Iron Bull learning it's OK for him to lose control/it doesn't mean he'll hurt people. Preference for Dominant!Vivienne but co-domming with others is also awesome._
> 
> Or as I chose to interpret it: pants-on kink with Vivienne/Bull, pants-off smut with Bull/Blackwall, and every other background ship is either established or in various stages of courtship and pining. There is also exactly one reference to daddy kink in Chapter 3 if that's not your cuppa, but no actual daddy kink.
> 
> The entire fic is fully written, and I am formatting for AO3 as my schedule permits. Most likely this will fall into 2 updates per week, so the whole thing should be fully posted by the second week of November. :)

The fuck-all most inconsequential trivial shit of being Tal-Vashoth— being, not just playing the role and getting to eat and fuck his way across Thedas at the same time, which is _good_ shit— is that it’s damn hard to find good horn balm. Bull tried haggling at the market for some and if Harding hadn’t been there to drop her jaw and grab his arm, he would have wandered off with a dehorning cream used for calves, and that would have been such a profound and disappointing shame. 

Half his jokes wouldn’t work anymore, for starters.

“Looking a lil’ rough, innit?” Sera asks, precariously wobbling in a chair. She’s tilted it back on its hind legs, face screwed in concentration and toes wriggling through the broken seams of her boots. “Your horns.”

“Telling the Chief to polish his horns?” Krem snorts, poking a finger at Sera’s seat.

Sera swats his hand away, yelps as she falls forward so the chair slams the ground. She’s no worse for it, though she rubs her ass with a ferocious scowl.

“Hey, I jack off same as anyone else!” Bull protests, because that’s just biological. Everyone’s going cow-eyed about the dreadnought but they never knew how close they came, that sometimes a decision has to be shoved outside where it can be picked apart and tossed by someone who actually knows what the fuck they’re doing, someone who can take responsibility for it because Hissrad, The Iron Bull, they were _things_ , purpose, position, and _things_ don’t make decisions—

But it doesn’t stop Bull from eating or swinging his sword. Or jacking off.

He still hasn’t polished his horns though.

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Sera snorts. “But look at those things.”

“My eye’s down here,” Bull grumbles.

Still beats Cole trying to help. Nice kid, creepy with all his business of tugging on tangles and touching hurt. Emotions aren’t meant to be toyed out like spools of wire, not unless they're tools.

Ben-Hassrath training teaches you to use what you can. Sadness, anger, pick a hook and use it. Separate the edges of a wound or shove it deep.

(He’s not Ben-Hassrath anymore.)

At least he still has Varric’s package of guimauves.

. . .

“Darling, you _must_ take care of yourself,” Vivienne says, and there’s no brooking that tone, even if he wanted.

If he’d known she was coming, he would have at least shoved the pie farther under the bed, but she says nothing— but he knows she knows about the pie, and she knows he knows, and if he keeps chasing that rabbit he’ll just spin himself dizzy— and steps over the overturned candles, the discarded wine bottle, the half-empty journals filled with notes he’ll never send, info that’s screwed tight inside his skull now.

She sits on the edge of his bed, and it’s not as if he hasn’t thought about her like this before, but it was in a more abstract way, a passing ‘what-if’ similar to checking the exits on a room or a marked deck of cards. Transient thoughts: data, analysis, decision, weighing possibilities for actions not taken.

“Sit,” she says, gesturing to the floor.

He sits.

The stone’s cold, even through his pants. He should put a rug down, really, make this a little cozier. But usually he’s been a big enough (heh, big enough) draw that no one else has ever complained upon seeing his room. He pushes so his back’s towards Vivienne’s knees, and she unscrews something with a pleasant, solid scrape to it— some sort of well-fitted wood or ceramic, and it fills the air with a green spice scent. Vaguely sharp, like there’s rosemary in it, possibly lemon.

She massages his scalp, the tender area where horn meets skin, and he doesn’t know where she got it but he knows it’s good shit. It’s thick without being greasy, soothing to the touch as she sets her thumbs in small circles, fingers tracing crevices of the skin.

He allows his shoulders to slump, sinks himself small.

“Are you sure you aren’t a little bit tamassran?” he asks. One long slow exhale of breath, spine unknitting itself.

“My dear, I don’t believe there is such a thing as ‘a little bit tamassaran.’” She massages over his horns, rough keratin soaking up her touch as much as the balm. He can’t feel it anymore except as a vague sense of pressure, but her knees are warm against his back as she leans forward. “You have value, darling. Both for yourself and the people around you. This sort of sloppiness ill-suits you.”

She sets a hand on his shoulder, rubbing the ointment along the long horizontal bar of his horn. Squeezes, just enough that her nails prick his skin, and it's a lullaby in motion as she switches sides.

Bull could sink into a warm puddle of nothing, just as he is. Just her hands on him and nothing else, would even go on his hands and knees, brace be damned, and be her footstool. Let her use him, mold him like putty until there's no space for thought.

But she rises to her feet and extends a graceful hand that is more show than support, since if he was actually dumb enough to take it he’d fall flat on his ass and drag her with him. So he waves it off, his mind all muddied waters as he lurches to standing.

Vivienne presses the tub into his hands, squeezing her hand over his to prevent refusal.

“My dear, manage your appearance. For my sake.”

“Yes ma’am.”

. . .

Bull knows they’re hunting wyverns because Vivienne asked the boss, and he’s happy enough to tag along because _hey,_ wyverns are the next best thing to dragons. They’re not as big, don’t get the blood flowing the same way, and their shits are twice as foul, but still fun to chase down and whack.

The white one’s a bit of a surprise, but hey.

It’s not until after, when Vivienne bids him to slice the sternum and crack open the ribs like an old book, when she dons long black gloves and plucks the heart out wet and gleaming, that he thinks—

Oh. This is something else.

He noses around, keeps his ears open. Vivienne keeps herself to herself, all silk silence and careful reserve, so he picks up the pieces from the boss.

_Oh_.

So Bull picks his time and visits Vivienne on the balcony. She stirs her tea; warm spice, heavy with milk and sugar, so carefully that her spoon does not scrape the bottom, does not chime against the sides. Control so careful it might shatter.

“Ma’am. I am sorry for your loss. If I can serve you in any way, just ask.”

“Thank you dear, but I shall manage.”

He squares his shoulders, stands straight. Chin out, he steps into the role she’s shaped for him. “I mean that, ma’am. If you require tea, or books from a high shelf, I can serve.” Does not say ‘I can care,’ because that shaves too close to truth. Better to offer a polite fiction for this highest form of trust.

“A leash pulls from both ends, my dear. You offer me service, but ask for control.” Her spoon rings against the cup, stills. “I am aware of your proclivities, Bull. I am no stranger to games of command and service, and you presume much.”

Words unspoken: _this is my grief, private. Not to be shared_.

“With respect, ma’am. This is what you need.” He keeps his gaze fixed over her left ear, does not meet her eyes because that would imply equality. He is not her equal in this, and obviously the little bit of tamassran in her did much better to soothe his loss than the little bit in him is doing for her. “His death was beyond your control. I am offering you complete control, and to indulge you as you deserve.” As he is, tall and broad. A commanding presence, to be _commanded._ Power in the palm of her hand. “I am not expecting bed games or watch words.”

Her eyes glitter like morningstars.

“If you truly wish to be of service, you will do exactly as I ask. No more.”

. . .

The first service he learns: to press her morning coffee. It’s an exquisite Antivan import, the beans releasing rich oils as he grinds them in a mortar and pestle. There is something reassuringly tactile in the scrape of ceramic, the way the precious beans break to pieces, grit, grain. It scents him dark and bitter, and Vivienne informs him that it begins losing potency within a minute of being ground, so it’s a balance of speed and thoroughness as he tilts it into a tiny Orlesian press. Pours hot water, breathes the aromatic bloom before stirring to break the crust. Adds more water. Screws the lid on top, plunger fully pulled.

Waits.

_Timing is everything, dear,_ Vivienne had said.

Timing is everything.

He measures the time in breaths, heartbeats. A clock could tell him the same thing, probably, and there’s something to be said for using them to coordinate meetings— you can hardly arrange for a dead drop or secret rendezvous at ‘fifty-two breaths after dinner’ or ‘seventeen yawns past midnight’ — but clocks can break, wind down, hide their flaws. Clocks don’t hold time any more than mouths hold secrets.

He pushes the plunger in one slow press. The resistance is minimal, though it grows thicker to the bottom as more of the grounds get caught in the filter. He pours immediately, the coffee a rich brown in Vivienne’s elegant white cup. He sets the cup on a saucer, the saucer on a tray, and sets them before Vivienne in offering.

She uncrosses her legs. Accepts.

Sips.

Her smile is small, but still there. “Well done, dear.”

It is the first of many rituals, each with its own precise steps. No worse than the Dance of the Six Candles (step, step, turn, step, shuffle, spin) but more applicable.

Vivienne enjoys starting her day with a hot drink, and it is his pleasure to serve her. She always selects the tea, the coffee, the chocolate, and while he is occasionally invited to drink with her, the point is this: she selects, but he provides. As he proves himself, each day making it to her specification, he is entrusted with more. He speaks with the merchants to acquire more of the Antivan beans, the occasional Orlesian chocolate, and loose-leaf teas and sachets of herbs and spice to make Vivienne’s brews. Dalish helpfully provides bits of twine and ribbon, braids them into pretty twists and Bull follows with his fingers, learns to make the bows on his own and to make each small gift of tea or coffee its own unique ceremony.

“Luxury is taking the opportunity to immerse oneself in the sensual. It’s a type of mindfulness,” Vivienne says, sipping today’s offering (orange and ginger, an aroma somewhere between sunshine and orchards) and favoring him with a small smile. “True flavor is a composite of the senses— the smell wafting towards one’s face, the lovely orange glow against white porcelain, the weight of the cup in one’s hand— and creates more meaning than taste alone.”

“Is there a lesson here, ma’am?”

Her smile does not broaden, but her eyes glitter; a subtle crease at the edges. “I am sure I do not know, dear.”

. . .

There is a freedom in stillness, in motion. He is an empty vessel, filled to purpose.

He officially learns to set table, to eat properly, to array all the minute cutlery as precisely as any skirmish. There’s an element of control there, silver knives flashing under the warm sun, then the cool moon, as Vivienne makes him set the table, over and over. His behavior reflects status— not hers, as might be assumed, but his. There is a pattern to everything, and while Bull has eaten among nobles he never truly internalized their mannerisms, but Vivienne never loses sense of the greater designs at play.

When he can set a place without error, fold the linen napkins just-so and properly distinguish the forks used for salad from dessert from escargot from meat, then he is entrusted with preparing Vivienne’s bath. She sets aside fragrant oils and towels for him to heat in front of the fire, to lay carefully in place and to pour into the tub. The tub is a deep, claw-footed thing of elegant curves, slipper-shaped to cradle the bather. Small warming runes traced in gold line the base of the tub, as discreet as their owner.

He never sees her naked, of course. It is too much to even flirt with her, to presume a teasing charm or flattery will make up for what she requires above all else: respect.

Of course, it does not mean she can’t tell him to go fuck someone else.

“You should seek pleasure with someone you fancy,” Vivienne says, rolling her foot so her toes press his thigh. He continues massaging her calves, fingers rolling into the curve of her knee, but no higher, her silk stockings dimpling beneath his touch. He may only touch her through layers, when permitted to touch her at all. She is sitting, as she deserves, in a high-backed chair in her private chambers. He is sitting on the floor, which may not be _exactly_ what he deserves but makes a nice emphasis on their positions. Basic psychology, nothing subtle to it, but still effective. “You do know that my service does not demand you be celibate, dear.”

“Would you like to select my partner, ma’am?”

Her lips twitch down, a carefully lacquered version of revulsion. There is genuine sentiment beneath it, but shaped to something pleasing.

(Of course, she could just as easily have shown him nothing at all. He watches, but there are still pockets she keeps to herself.)

“Darling, that is _entirely_ between you and your intended. I would prefer nothing so tawdry as sex to mar our exchanges.”

. . .

After Bull demonstrates his mastery of the basics, after he’s provided her tea and coffee not only in the comfortable confines of Skyhold but served her green apple tea in the teeth-chattering Emprise du Lion, peppermint in the early morning chill of the Hissing Wastes, some vaguely tropical blend of black tea with tiny shreds of coconut and pineapple that smells like distant shores and nothing at all like the druffalo-and-pine of the Hinterlands (and one hasty cup of coffee drawn into the sucking mud of the Fallow Mire, part joke and part apology, the drawn lines of steam oozing into oblivion even as Bull apologized for the muck having soaked their supplies), Vivienne deems him ready for a ladies’ luncheon.

“Of course, you are always welcome. But now you are ready to be _seen_.”

Her praise is precious. He melts with her regard.

He doesn’t bother putting on a shirt, any more than Vivienne bothers dressing in anything more formal than her usual elegance, but this is a chance to demonstrates his etiquette, his courtesy. Most of it is old hat by now; sure, he can pretend to be brutish with the best of them, but part of knowing how to play the role is knowing exactly how far to push and no farther. Using the tiny escargot fork for the salad is sufficient to send Orlesians tittering, but scratching your ass with it goes too far.

The lunch include the usual cast, minus the Boss— he’s off butting heads or locking lips with the Carta, maybe both at once. But for now it’s the real foundation of the Inquisition, the women who built it from bare bones and hope; Josephine, Leliana, Cassandra. Morrigan sits at the periphery, ostensibly absorbed by her tea (an Orlesian blend, black tea enriched with bergamot and lavender) but her knees subtly angled towards Leliana, centered on some old feeling. The slippers that peep from the edge of the table are red and lined with fur.

Even Sera makes a surprise appearance, a sudden dustdevil burst of laughter and a sloppy kiss for Josephine before pinching the best treats and scarpering off with her cheeks bulging.

(And perhaps less surprise than Sera would think; Bull noticed how Josephine had placed the fruit tarts by her elbow, and Vivienne had tugged the canelé tray to the edge of the table, where Sera could grab without disrupting the rest of the snacks.)

Bull takes his share of the finger foods, but does _not_ load his plate because Vivienne watches. He is rewarded for his restraint with a small nod of approval, and freely helps himself to seconds after the salmon canapés and lemon macarons disappear in a few short swallows. The food provides cover as he listens without eavesdropping; Leliana and Morrigan circle one another like old friends or lovers, roses beneath thorned words. Cassandra earnestly discusses poetry with Josephine, and they exchange slim volumes of Antivan poetry and Chantry-inspired verses, favorite passages marked with pieces of ribbon.

And Vivienne is seen, seeing. She drops words where she can, small gems to contribute to Cassandra and Josephine’s poetry, subtle tugs that angle Leliana and Morrigan into reminiscing about the Warden, careful inquiries after Kieran— and Morrigan’s weird by any standard, Bull figures. Seems no one outside the Qun uses creches. The Circles come the closest, where mages are hardly expected to raise their own children, but few single mothers are open apostates either.

When the snacks are done and the tea all drunk, Vivienne escorts Bull back to the tavern.

He slows his strides, keeps pace to match her clicking heels on the stones. “What sort of drink would you prefer for tomorrow, ma’am?”

She smiles. Tilts her head, enough to grace him with the weight of her full attention. “You are familiar with my preferences, dear. I shall allow you to decide.”

Vivienne leads, as always, but Bull opens the door for her and offers her in with a sweep of his arm. She shakes her head with a smile, and leaves.

When Bull makes his way to his usual table, he sees Krem standing on his chair (as if he’ll ever convince anyone he’s that tall, really), face blanched, jaw loose.

Aw crap. Not _again._

“Madame de Fer?” Krem asks, and that confirms it. As if Bull needed confirmation, because Krem has a _thing_ for elegantly dressed women, falls in love at the drop of a hat and would go diving for said hat solely to clutch it to his chest and spout poetry and offerings at the target of his affections. Krem’s not the type to lay a cloak over a mud puddle; he’d throw himself face-first in the muck and beg them to step on him.

“The one and only,” Bull says, as if he even needs that confirmation.

“She is _magnificent_ ,” Krem breathes.

Well, shit. Can’t blame the kid for having eyes.

. . .

So really, it’s no surprise when Krem suggests a picnic outing, and while Skinner makes her usual grimace, Dalish claps her hands with enough enthusiasm to overcompensate. Grim grunts (one of the positive ones with the tiny up-pitch that means ‘yes’), Stitches packs a couple poultices in case of bee-stings, and Rocky wonders aloud what kind of flowers a certain scout might like.

Bulls sets himself comfortably under a tree, where he can itch his shoulders against the trunk. Aw yeah, this is good shit.

“Why _anyone_ like flowers. Is stupid,” Skinner says flatly, arms crossed and scowling as Dalish weaves white and yellow meadow-flowers into crowns and loops.

“You’re just angry that you haven’t gotten the trick of it yet,” Dalish says, lilting sweetly. “Also, you might possibly be a tiny bit allergic.”

Skinner makes an awful hocking noise, scratching her nose.

“Ambassador sent her flowers. I’m sure she likes flowers,” Rocky says.

Stitches carefully sets his own crown upon his head, studying his shadow in an effort to get it evenly placed. “Ambassador might be courting her.”

Rocky frowns. “Does she not like men, then?”

“Caught her blushing at Flissa,” Dalish says cheerfully, tugging Stitches’ crown askew. “Also caught her blushing at Krem after training, so.”

“Can’t blame her. Krem’s very blushable,” Rocky says sagely.

“Or maybe she only likes shem,” Skinner suggests. Her scowl could crack granite.

“What do you think?” Krem asks Dalish. He has a bouquet of purple and white flowers, with tiny blue buds filling the gaps.

She wrinkles her nose critically, then snaps a yellow stalk from the nearest bush. “There! You really should think more vertical, you know.”

“He wants to think horizontal,” Skinner says, with a vulgar gesture.

“ _You_ want to think horizontal,” Dalish replies.

Skinner grins, broad and savage, and plucks one of Dalish’s flower crowns from the ground. She flings it sideways in a lazy arc, lobbing it so it bounces off Bull’s forehead. “Two coppers say next time, I get his horns.”

“Five coppers says you _don’t_ ,” Bull snorts, and then there’s nothing for it but to be pummeled by crowns, bouquets, and flowers for the next half hour.

. . .

Ma’am is less than pleased to find the muddy bouquet on her desk. Her eyes narrow, and Bull can _feel_ his balls shrivel, temperature dropping as Vivienne radiates frosty disdain.

“Bull, I trust this wasn’t you?”

Bull thinks of Krem, pink and sweating, tying together that sad bouquet with a yellow ribbon and then dropping it as Skinner stabbed her fingers in his ribs—

“No, ma’am,” he says with perfect truth.

. . .

Vivienne has obviously drawn her own conclusions, snubbing Blackwall at every opportunity and treating him even more coldly than usual. She remarks at length upon his failures of hygiene: the dirt under his nails, the grime on his shirt, his unwashed socks. She wrinkles her nose at the manure on his boots, loudly _tsks_ over the gravy in his beard, and shreds her bouquet into the dracolisk’s feeding trough.

Blackwall notices nothing out of the ordinary.

Bull softens it, at least. He buys Blackwall a round, slings his arm across Blackwall’s shoulder and belts dirty drinking songs that shake the rafters. Sera somehow wedges her way between them, making up new words whenever they fumble.

And Bull thinks about bananas. Sure, Blackwall’s smaller, squishier, less bendy— but what the hell, could be fun.

Bull thinks about it. Smiles a bit more. Laughs a bit louder. Thinks if he just _asked_ , Blackwall might be up for it. Blackwall makes no secret that he prefers ladies, but ‘prefers’ isn’t the same as ‘only,’ and there’s a little piece of Blackwall that begs for a firm hand and a rough touch.

Ultimately, Bull decides nah. Just leaves it at a scratchy, whiskery kiss outside the stables, Blackwall laughing beer and malt and patting Bull’s left tit. “Thank you. This was— this was good. We should do this more often.”

“We should,” Bull agrees, kissing the top of Blackwall’s head. He smells a little, sure. Horse and hay and leather. Not bad smells, really. Just not Vivienne smells.

Bull already made up his mind not to ask, but Blackwall scratches awkwardly behind his neck. Scuffs his boots against the ground. Lets out a blustery sigh through his moustache, like some sort of deflated ghost. “If you’d like to do more— more, I mean. Now is good.”

There’s a piece of history peeking through, Bull figures. The bit that still says Blackwall doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve whatever makes him happy. The man doesn’t need punishment, just needs to know he isn’t a complete piece of shit.

“Now is _fucking_ good,” Bull growls, and Blackwall mumbles something about this being his first time. “With a man? With a Qunari?” Bull asks, and Blackwall bites back a startled laugh.

“Still not my first time with a Qunari, _Tal-Vashoth_ ,” Blackwall snorts. It’s play-nasty, not sharp-nasty, the way it might have stung right after the dreadnought. It puts some bite into Blackwall as he pushes Bull, so Bull pushes back, a little harder, and it’s a wonder they’re not tripping over their damn boots as they jostle their way to Blackwall’s bed up in the loft. The dracolisk gives a sleepy sort of hiss at them, which they promptly ignore, and Blackwall might not know much about fucking another man or a Qunari, but he knows skin, knows touch, knows how to unfasten Bull’s strap so his pauldron falls away, how to undo Bull’s pants with a few tugs and then squeeze his cock, so hard it hurts at first— and Bull hisses between his teeth, digs his nails into Blackwall’s bicep until Blackwall eases off with an apologetic kiss on the belly— and then to jerk with a clumsy slap of his palm against Bull’s crotch.

“Easy there,” Bull says. “We’ve got all night.” Which is actually a lie because he has training the next morning, but it’s the nice kind of lie they can both believe, at least for a little while. “C’mon, I wanna see you out of those clothes.”

Blackwall fumbles to undo his gambeson, and Bull takes the opportunity to taste those gaps of exposed skin, to nuzzle the new-exposed strip of neck and to slide his hand under the edge of Blackwall’s shirt. Man’s covered in hair, black and curly and tickly against Bull’s palm, a pleasing sort of crinkle as he scrunches his nose into it. Hair does wonderful things for capturing smell, warmth and body and the faint musk of rut.

Blackwall giggles.

“Ticklish? You? Would never have guessed,” Bull chuckles.

“And you can keep guessing,” Blackwall snorts, but of course that means Bull has to blow his belly (his wonderful, fuzzy belly) with a phenomenal raspberry, the sort that sounds like a hill giant farting, and _that_ means Blackwall can’t stop laughing as Bull grabs his ass, sits back on the bed and pulls so that Blackwall stumbles forward, knees wide and straddling Bull’s lap. The laughter’s done more for Bull’s boner than Blackwall’s clumsy handjob, his cock bobbing between Blackwall’s thighs.

Blackwall swallows, tension in his jaw, his neck. His legs. “Bull. Hands, tonight?”

“Not with that death-grip,” Bull says, but softens at Blackwall’s apologetic wince. “Nah, nah. Just teasing. But yeah. Hands are good. Mouths, too, if you’re up for it. Want a finger in your ass?”

Blackwall doesn’t blush— ha, Bull knew it, man’s had things up his ass and _liked_ it— but shakes his head. “I like your hands on my ass. More like…” His voice drops into a mumble, but Bull has sharp ears.

He grins. “Wanna get spanked? C’mere then.”

Blackwall’s still not bendy, but it doesn’t take a lot of bend to get him sprawled over Bull’s lap, belly slung between Bull’s knees and his forearms on the bed, head resting on that triangle of space between. He’s warm, solid on Bull’s legs, grinding so his cock brushes Bull’s as they sink heavy into the mattress. Bull twists his hand into the back of Blackwall’s hair, and Blackwall hisses, his spine curving, but _into_ it, figuring out some push-pull of tension as Bull decides against releasing and instead asks, “You okay?”

“I like your hand in my hair,” Blackwall says, as if that’s enough explanation.

And it is.

This isn’t control, not really. Just some friendly smacking around, some slap and shove with cocks out. Bull loves the way Blackwall’s ass fits against his palm; good layer of squish, and if Bull spreads his fingers he can just-barely cover the whole thing with the span of his hand. Blackwell carries his weight in his belly and thighs, enough to give them a jiggle. Enough to pad the hard muscle beneath, to hold the echo of soft living.

Bull warms up slow and light, just some rapid pats with his fingers, a couple harder ones whenever Blackwall stops wriggling. Just enough to warm that ass to pink, like cherry blossoms. Blackwall’s not much of a wriggler, more of a happy moaner as he ruts against Bull’s thigh, hands fisting into the covers. Makes it easy for Bull to just wind up, smack the next one harder. One big _crack!_ that leaves his hand and finger stumps outlined, white on red, still gripping Blackwall’s hair so he can feel the teeth-rattle of impact.

Blackwall bellows into the blankets, shoves his cock into Bull’s lap, grinds up against Bull’s crotch. He grunts, “Maker, yes, like _that_ ,” as if it could be any more obvious, his scalp pulled taut and Bull obliges, reeling back his other hand to lay down another line of hard smacks. No art or finesse; no games or headspace here, just skin and sweat and flesh in rhythm. High snaps on the curve of the buttocks, and lowers thuds where it borders the thighs, each impact sending a ripple of red motion on pale skin. Blackwall wedges himself so his cock rubs between Bull’s thighs in shallow thrusts. Bull would offer lube, but before he can do more than open his mouth Blackwall comes with a stuttering sigh, hips trembling to a halt.

Bull bends over, ignores the small creak in his back. Breathes in Blackwall’s post-rut smell, like sweet hay and warm leather. Good, good. Even with Blackwall’s seed trickling between his thighs, warm and sticky. A little bit of mess is part of the fun.

“Bull.” Blackwall swallows, sighs. His hair’s tousled into cowlicks and bent angles, a hundred different bits of chaos. Makes Bull want to ruffle his head and start all over again. “Your turn.”

They change positions, Blackwall sitting in Bull’s lap and facing him, soft cock dangling between his legs as his knees stretch wide around Bull’s hips. When Blackwall touches him, Blackwall’s grip still leans firm— man’s spent too much time alone, but Bull’s made that joke already and should give it at least a week before trying again— but he follows directions, cups more loosely and spits into his palm to provide lubrication. Bull could get himself off faster and easier, but part of the fun is watching Blackwall handle his dick, using both hands to cover him and with his callused hands curled soft.

Bull comes, eventually. A couple spurts, hard enough to spatter over Blackwall’s forearm, but that just makes an excuse to lick him clean, to swirl his tongue over Blackwall’s arms and taste him all over again.

It seems a damn shame to walk to his own room, after, especially since they’re sticky and tangled in each other’s cum. Bull rolls onto his back and Blackwall half-sprawls across his chest. They fall asleep in unspoken agreement, Blackwall gently drooling on his ribs.


	2. Water to a Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fear and its mastery. Pain. Control. Circus-tent pantaloons.

Bull wakes up warm and sweaty, Blackwall’s chin mashed into his armpit and the blankets tossed somewhere around Blackwall’s bare ass. It beats cold and sweaty, but gets worse as Bull tries extricating himself. Blackwall grumbles something, burying his nose into Bull’s ribs, but his beard is itchy-ticklish and Bull finally hisses, “Blackwall, off!”

Blackwall rolls off, hand raised in what might be an attempt at a raised middle finger before he falls asleep again.

Bull kisses his cheek. Blackwall seems like the type who needs morning-after kisses.

The dracolisk hisses at Bull when he leaves. Bull hisses back.

Bull reaches his quarters and pulls out the sachet of black tea, mixed with crushed cinnamon and clove. He prepares the water with a camp kettle in the fireplace, rubs his shoulders and breathes into his cupped palms. It’s fucking cold; not the Frostbacks, at least, but still too damn cold. At least the good thing about it is that bodies take longer to stink.

He pours the water into the pot, starts stretching out the stiffness as it steeps. Arms overhead, behind. Stretch left, stretch right. His knee aches worse in the cold, and something about the numbness feels like his missing fingers are back, as if they’d just been misplaced and forgotten all this time.

He pours the tea into two mugs, then makes his way to the training grounds.

Madame Vivienne moves like a dancer on the field, her footwork precise and without a single wasted movement. She steps left, spins her staff to block Cassandra’s wooden blade, steps forward. Presses her advantage, breath rising sharp as she parts her mouth, pushes. Force of will extended beyond the reach of her arms.

Cassandra raises her shield, breaks sideways. Swings her sword, is blocked. She spits, saliva flecked with foam, and grunts as the tip of Vivienne’s staff skates over the edge of the shield to tap her shoulder.

“Shall we go again, dear?”

Cassandra shakes her head. “No. You have clearly bested me. If it were your blade, there would be no contest.”

“If I had been using my magic, you would have been using your Seeker training.” Vivienne pull her staff back with a spinning flourish, and smiles warmly. She is as elegantly dressed as ever, layers of silk and padding that still manage to look sleek while providing some cushioning against the wooden practice blades. Her scalp gleams, sweat damp on her brow— no, not sweat, Bull corrects himself. Ladies don’t sweat, they _perspire_.

(See, Hissrad’s not the only one who lies.)

“Ma’am. Cassandra. Tea?” he asks.

Cassandra grunts with surprised gratitude, brows shooting upward as she takes her first sip. “This is good of you, Bull. Thank you.”

“Well done, darling. You have excellent taste,” Vivienne says, and the acknowledgment slips over him like a warm bath, better than an outright ‘thank you.’ He did good.

He watches Vivienne curl and uncurl her fingers, stretching. Cassandra wears her scars unashamedly, thick ridges of old keloid and slick patches on her arms and shoulders, rolls up her sleeves to get dirty and never thinks twice about it. Even now, Cassandra tugs open the collar of her shirt, fanning herself after this morning exertion.

Vivienne wears her sleeves long, her boots high. Even her magnificent cleavage (which has not made an appearance today, alas, but sensible given the sparring) conceals and distracts, redirects the observer. Bull’s spent enough time as a fighter to know she’s got her own scars under there, well-hidden. Healing’s not cheap, even among mages, and magic can’t mend everything.

“Would you like some bruise balm, Cassandra?”

Cassandra visibly perks, eyes bright. “Is it the one with roses?”

“The very same, dear.” A sunrise smile, warm and golden. “I remember how much you enjoyed the scent.”

Vivienne and Cassandra retreat to her quarters, but Bull isn’t left alone long as Krem plops his arms over the fence with a dreamy sigh.

“Magnificent,” he sighs, across a split lip.

“How many times did you eat your maul?” Bull asks.

Krem scrunches his nose, shakes his head.

“Only the one time!” Dalish pipes in, wedging herself onto the fence and using Krem as an armrest. “And it wasn’t a _lot_ of eating. More like a tiny nibble.”

“Noble, mage, swordsman—”

“Swords _woman_ ,” Dalish corrects.

Bull snorts. “Is that the word? It’s clunky as shit.”

“—whatever. Is there anything she can’t do?”

Bull thinks about the scars hidden beneath the fine gowns and tailored sleeves. Grunts. “You know she wasn’t born a noble, right? Still isn’t.” Which makes him feel a bit of a shit, but. Technically, that’s right. Not that Vivienne isn’t damn good at whatever she chooses, but she can’t change what she _is_.

Krem laughs, punches Bull’s bicep. “Nobles are all about lineage and bloodline. This means more.”

. . .

Then there’s all the shit at Adamant. Boss left Bull behind for that one, dragging Vivienne and Varric and Cassandra for _that_ fun-filled adventure, but that only left Bull to hear about the aftermath. And take his own precautions.

Which, of course, lead to tonight’s conversation.

“Darling, I saw that ridiculous display with Cassandra. If you wish someone to inflict punishment, allow me.” She sips her cocoa, leaving only the tiniest dab of lipstick on the rim, so small it might be a trick of the light.

His neck prickles. “It’s not ridiculous, ma’am. It’s a Qunari training exercise to master fear.”

She arches an eyebrow. “ _That_ is not why it’s ridiculous, dear. Fear— and its mastery— are entirely valid reactions.” Vivienne sets her cup down, rises to her feet. She wears dignity like a crown, makes her tall enough to bring him small. “What was ridiculous was asking _Cassandra_ to hit you.”

“She hits very hard.”

“But you do not fear her.” She _tsk_ s behind her teeth, shakes her head. “And goading her about being a woman was not well-chosen, Bull.”

“It did make her hit harder, ma’am.”

“It was unsporting. This is not the Game, after all.” She places her hands behind her back, raises her chin. “If you sought pain and mastery, you should have come to me.”

He had thought of it, true. But.

“I did not want to overstep, ma’am.”

“Which is why I am telling you that if you seek impact, I can provide.”

He knows pain: its many weights and textures, a latticework of healed tissue, battle, fatigue, the bone-deep ache of things that were healed so thoroughly the only memories are scars. The occasional phantom prickles of his missing fingers, the way he still sees with both eyes in his dreams, some nights. Pain is familiar as water to a fish.

His chest and shoulders still ache, striped blue and purple with bruises. Boss had gotten in on the action, laid some hits over Bull’s thighs and ass (and Bull knew better than to make short jokes, not when Boss had made it clear from day one that anything of the sort would earn a swift and unceremonious kick in the ass) but that had all been pulse-pounding, fire-in-your-veins type of pain, immediate and commanding. All impact without artistry.

Vivienne won’t hit him with a stick, he figures.

She’ll make it more memorable.

“I would like that very much, ma’am.”

“Here is what I have in mind: a paddle, a blindfold, a gag. Perhaps some ice or heat. If any of these are objectionable—”

“No ma’am, not at all,” he hastens to say.

She chuckles. “Do not interrupt, dear. But I am glad you do not object. I do not enjoy play-resistance, so any attempts to break away will be treated with sincerity. Your hands will be free, so if you wish me to stop at any point, you will raise your hand in a fist. Unclench, then clench. Three times, so I shan't miss it.”

He nods, and allows her to lead him into position. She takes him to her desk— cleared of all papers, for a change— and sets his hands on the wood, allows him to brace himself with a wide grip. Vivienne taps her foot against the inside of his ankle and he sets his stance, tenses and flexes until he finds balance. Steady, but loose. She touches his chin and he dips his head, waits as she wraps a red scarf over his eyes. It’s thin enough that when he opens his eyes he sees a rosy glow, though it’s still too opaque to allow true visibility. He closes his eyes, opens his mouth when she taps his cheek, and accepts the gag. It’s some sort of thick, soft fabric, faintly bitter as if it’s been stored with sachets of dried herbs, but nothing immediately identifiable. The knot she ties presses the base of his skull, perfectly centered and aligned with the blindfold.

It’s easier if he waits, he knows. Sink into the moment, the weight of his toes digging into the floor, the press of his palms on her desk. Let his flesh hang off his bones, his breath hang off his lips. Better to think _here, now_ than to anticipate her strike.

“I will start counting, dear. Every time I say ‘three,’ there will be a blow. You may brace yourself for it if you wish.”

Shit. Different sort of fear than facing Cassandra in the ring, but. This is good.

( _Shit_ but Vivienne would make a great tama.)

“One.”

Feels almost like sacrilege as his cock wakes up, presses against the table. Shit. Shit. Shit. Gets the blood going, but this isn’t— this is about _him_ , him and his fear-boners. Not Vivienne, not exactly. Not when she’s made it clear that sex isn’t any part of their arrangement.

“Two.”

His skin prickles cold, or hot, or maybe electric. He knows he’s breathing heavy, muted by the gag. Taking deep breaths through his nose, gusty exhales, like a horse champing at the bit.

“Three.”

_Smack._

It rocks him forward, though he keeps his feet planted, manages not to knock himself into her desk. Good, solid hit. Angled up, a good, thuddy sort of impact. Broad— he’d love to check her paddle later, would love to see the shape, the heft of it. Felt like wood; too much weight in that swing to be all her, though maybe some kind of leather detailing on it. Fuck, he can imagine Vivienne with _exquisite_ taste in leather.

“One,” she repeats, and this is going to be some sort of loop, maybe. Dream-like repetition, circling around and around.

He could dissolve into breath, into mist. Light-headed and euphoric. It _hurts_ , but. This is a pain he can dissect, pull apart, break into pieces. This is a pain he can manage.

“Two.”

He could raise his hand, show his fist. Clench, unclench. If he wanted to.

“Three.”

He doesn’t want to, and this second smack jolts him all the way through his toes, hits the other side of his ass for perfect symmetry. The first cheek’s still warm, still throbbing, but memory of pain is nothing to the red-hot strike of this new blow.

“One.”

He could hang, suspended, in this moment. Pain layered over anticipation layered over a dull sort of pride. She’d called this _ridiculous_ , but he can show her how seriously he takes it. He can take, and take, and take. Endure like stone, like mountains.

“Two.”

The gag’s damp in his mouth, saliva soaked into its folds. Still faintly bitter, under the taste of his own tongue.

“Three.”

Third strike goes back over the first cheek, though slightly higher. Overlapping, so that he gets the fresh sting of new skin and the twice-hurt burn of impact.

It falls into repetition, pattern— nothing so dull as monotony, but it reminds him of those singers who chant the same verses, starting at different points. She covers areas fresh and new, brings new pains by layering them over old ones. Each blow hits with the same amount of force, the same attention to detail. If her arm grows weary she doesn’t show it, and only gives the same meticulous count before striking. Cut from all other sight, her voice gives him a trail to follow, some glimpse of what might come next.

But she eludes him, even now, gives him nothing but the count.

(Two more counts and he forgets to remember anything else.)

His body could break into waves, dissolve into foam. That hot, high burn ripples over his ass, dissolves down his thighs, drips into his crotch. His hard-on’s gone, though for the life of him he can’t remember ever being more turned on. Turned out. Head swimming in each beat of her voice, every polished syllable of her lips.

“Bull?” she asks. The first break in the count, cool and distorted. Like speaking from a distant shore. Problem must be his ears, not her— his pulse echoes too loud, his breath crackles beneath his ribs. All the ways she’s brought him into his body.

“Mmn?” he mumbles, or tries to mumble. The gag swallows any words he might make, if he had anything beyond a slurry of thought.

“Are you with me? Do you remember your signal?” she asks.

He does, he does— wants to tell her, but he’s gagged. Wants to show her, but doesn’t want her to stop.

“If you are listening— if you remember— raise your right hand.”

He obeys. His hand feels heavy, distant, a foreign weight. His arm is nothing but a system of pulleys and levers. All sensation, all feeling, all _him_ is still in his lower body.

She takes a few careful steps on his right, heels muffled by the carpet. She smells like vanilla and sandalwood, warm and earthy. A rustle of fabric over skin, tugging, pulling, and five points of ice prickle over his shoulder, draw together in a rosebud, or— perception shifts— five fingers drawn together, cold without damp. Some careful application of frost magic, traced high over his shoulders, his spine, the wings of his scapula. All ice and cold in contrast to the burn on his ass, one sensation heightening the other.

He wishes she would lower his pants, apply those cold hands directly to his ass, but. That would be too close to crossing boundaries. He won’t ask unless she offers.

So she puts her palm flat on his back, braces herself, and he knows the next blow’s coming. Reads the tension in her forearm, the shift of weight, pressure, even before she starts the new count.

“One.”

Her hand, flat.

“Two.”

Palm no longer flat; cupped, but barely so. His back arches, tries to fill that tiny gap.

“Three.”

 _Smack_ and it jolts him through endorphins, through ice, through heat, centered like meditation in skin. The body remembers, the body knows— this is pain, controlled, metered. He has endured worse (so much worse, in Seheron) but it’s the difference between a drink of water and being thrown into a river. She won’t give him more than he needs, won’t break him beyond what he asks.

The next strikes go hard, harder. She may not have Cassandra’s arms but she _does_ wield a blade, puts the full weight of her shoulders, her hips into it. Can barely hear it, the _fwip_ of her slippers in the carpet, turning, friction. Barely audible over the resounding blows of the paddle, his own swallowed grunts and the way his pulse rings in his ears. Friction, burning, chafing— he thinks ropes could be good, some other time. Maybe. Rope-burn’s not sexy, but something to struggle against? Oh fuck.

(Struggle is an illusion. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless.)

Words break, somewhere.

She keeps going.

Speech devolves to sound.

He is stone, he is mountain.

He endures.

Eventually, somewhere— he comes back to himself. Ass sore, a pounding redness. There will be bruises layered on bruises, darks and blues over the grey of his skin. There is her icy touch, the heat of his blood.

“Dear, are you with me?” she asks, and he thinks _yes, yes, I am_ because where else would he be but in his body, in this moment?

(The mind is a many-chambered place.)

Vivienne undoes his blindfold, removes his gag. Leads him, sore and blinking, where he can recline face-down on her chaise lounge. It’s not made for anyone his size, so his feet trail to the floor, his arms dangle over the edge, but. Close enough, close enough. She passes him a cool towel, helps him loosen his pants so he can lay the damp cloth over his paddled ass. The cool— cool, not icy— shock of it flares bright, first, before settling to a comfortable soothing effect.

She passes him a small plate of sweets, petit fours and macarons. Prepares a robust tea thick with cinnamon and honey. All these small things that he wants to refuse, should refuse— because he is meant to serve _her_ , not the other way around— but she quenches those protests with a decisive shake of her head.

“You have been hard-used, darling. This is a reward.”

Used hard— as a weapon, a shield. A battering ram. All things have their place, and so does he.

So he submits to her hands, the firm press of her thumb in the tight cords of his neck, his shoulders. Lets her massage him to what he is, what he should be. Smooth out lines of tension, rework the muscle. Things roll beneath the skin, crack, release.

Finally, lying limp and relaxed on the lounge, he hears her pull a chair close. She sits, crosses her legs with a rustle of fabric. He catches a whiff of that sharp lemon-and-rosemary smell, and she starts massaging balm into his horns, his scalp. Ahhh.

“How are you feeling, dear?”

“Good,” he manages. It doesn’t seem like enough, somehow— like one small word can’t encompass the depth of that feeling, the cleansing purity of it. “ _Really_ good.” Still not enough. “Thank you.”

Which… still isn’t enough, but Vivienne chuckles.

“You’re welcome.”

This is nothing so tawdry as sex (her words; they echo) but he likes sex. This is nothing so _simple_ as sex.

“Have you been seeing anyone, darling?”

He chuckles into the cushion. “I see lots of people, ma’am. But fucking?”

“ _Language_.”

“Sex? Yeah, been seeing someone.” Or ‘saw.’ Not regular enough to be seeing with Blackwall, not yet. Flissa’s lovely, and there’s that healer with the green eyes, and one of the boss’ Carta runners keeps giving him this appraising look that makes Bull want to squat and get climbed, but… huh. Strange to think it’s only been Blackwall in the past month.

“I would like it clear that your affairs are your own, Bull. We are friends. But I would like to support you in your relationships, even if you feel I might not approve.”

...oh shit. She _knows_ about Blackwall.

“Dorian and I may have our disagreements, but I assure you it is little more than a verbal spar.”

Bull unswallows his tongue. “Huh. Gotta admit, that was— not where I was expecting you to go.”

Vivienne chuckles, and he can _hear_ the smile laced between her teeth, the soft amusement she allows herself. “Dorian is a man of passion and taste. You could do far worse.”

“I thought he and the Boss…?”

A moment’s silence. Bull glances up to see Vivienne’s lips pursed, her expression like someone tiptoeing over a pile of dog shit. “Inquisitor Cadash is a man who may deeply admire Dorian, but whose tastes run towards portraits of dogs playing poker and mawkish pastoral scenes.”

All part of the Boss’ finer qualities, in Bull’s opinion.

“Ma’am, I’m a man wearing a circus tent for pantaloons.”

Vivienne laughs, a dainty silver-bell chime as she fans her hand over her mouth. “An unfortunate state of affairs, but easily remedied.”

(It is only a jest, thank fuck.)

. . .

Adamant was a shitty situation all around, no way around it. It was a foundational thing, cracks in earth and sky and an entire fortress overrun with demons. Maybe that’s why learning about Thom Rainier didn’t hit as hard as it should. Because Thom Rainier was a shitty person, no way around it. But personal, small.

A man is who he is.

So when Blackwall, or Rainier, or whoever he really _is_ under those names, comes knocking on his door, well. Bull doesn’t turn him away.

The man stands outside, arms down, hands clasped in front of him. He smells thick and smokey, like long hours in front of the fire. Sleeves splashed bitter with beer, but his eyes are clear. Downcast, but clear.

“Bull. I am sorry. It is the least of my apologies, and what you deserve, but I am sorry.”

“For what?” Bull asks, because even if he can see the shape of it, some things are better laid bare.

“I feel as if I… took advantage of you. Having approached you under false pretenses.”

Bull rolls it in his mouth. Tastes its nuance. “Nah. I mean, you knew I was a spy.”

“Was. Not are. And you never—”

“Killed a wagonload of kids?” Because shit, years don’t change some things. Can’t ever fix things, can’t push things around into neat piles of ‘us’ or ‘them’ or try justifying it.

The man doesn’t flinch, but Bull can see the tightness in his mouth, the tremor in his hand. Good. As long as it hurts, it matters. “As Blackwall, I was something. I had purpose. I could make amends.”

“And who are you now?”

He hesitates. “Trying to be a better man.”

Bull scratches his scalp, knuckles rough against his eyepatch. Thinks about stone. Mountains. The sea.

Finally, Bull says, “You had no power over me. Took no advantage.” Snorts. “Would’ve been damn hard with you over my lap and ass in the air.”

Blackwall blushes, deep and ruddy. “It was still a deception.”

Bull snorts. “C’mere then.”

There’s not much in the way of laughter, but a little more in the way of kissing.


	3. Laughter During Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honey, suspension, Antivan lace and dropped soap.

Bull serves Vivienne her morning tea on the balcony, a rich breakfast blend with hints of bergamot. It usually makes a pleasant start to both their days, but Vivienne is quietly fuming. She does not take her normal deep inhale of its aroma, does not caress the cup with her palm to feel its warmth. Instead, she sips, so quickly her teeth click against the cup.

The source of her irritation? Another anonymous gift.

It’s _fancy_ honey, Bull knows that. Soft yellow and clear as glass, served in a slender bottle like one might pour wine. A small label declares it’s acacia honey, and it pours smooth and even onto Bull’s finger. Good flow to it, not too thick. When he licks, he tastes afternotes of vanilla.

“It’s not Sera,” he points out, to Vivienne’s revolted shock. “She wouldn’t bother with a nice bottle or ribbon.”

Vivienne finishes her tea, drums her fingers on the railing. “Thank you for the assurance, but I think it’s best if _you_ take the honey.”

Sera laughs her ass off about it in the tavern, clutching her ribs and falling to the floor in a whooping mess. A grimy sock peeks out from a hole in her boot, the leather flapping over it.

Krem just sighs and buries his face in his hands.

“Like I’d give her anything! _Shite_ that’s the _expensive_ stuff, she think’s I’m a nob?” Sera cackles, then pulls herself upright, clutching the table. She gives a gap-toothed grin, freckles dancing on her cheeks. “Bull, I know you’re giving high-and-mighty priss all sorts of treats, but if _I_ were you, yeh? Forget fancy. Teach her what the little people like.”

“What do you have in mind?”

Sera’s grin widens, and she darts out the door.

Later that night, Sera drops by his room with a tin of lemon tea. He doesn’t ask where she found it, fragrant with rind and rosehip, but she runs off before he can ask anyway. He brews some of it first to make sure it’s not a prank.

It’s lemon tea.

The next morning, Vivienne laughs as she drinks it.

“I haven’t had this since I was a girl in Ostwick.”

Bull chews his lip. Considers.

“Ma’am, credit goes to Sera. This was her suggestion.”

“Oh? I will have to thank her appropriately, then.”

. . .

Vivienne stops by the tavern, makes her way to the Chargers’ table as if this is an old habit rather than a rare event. Krem blanches, tongue bit between his teeth, and Skinner helpfully kicks him under the table. Bull straightens himself up from his comfortable slouch, tips his head as graciously as he can. “Ma’am!”

Sera scrunches her nose, pushing herself back in her seat. “Oh. What do _you_ want then?”

Vivienne smoothes her lap, takes a seat and orders two glasses of mead. As casually as if they were old acquaintances rather than mutual antagonists. “To thank you for the tea, dear. It was quite delicious.”

“You can’t prove it was me! Can’t prove _nothing_ was me!” Sera sputters, pushing away her mead. “What is this stuff anyway? Poison?!”

“It’s mead, darling. A fermented honey drink. Considering your fondness for bees, I thought you might enjoy it.”

Sera crosses her legs, wriggling in her seat. She takes a sniff, then a tentative sip. “It’s not bad, right. Okay.”

“Five coppers she spits it all up after,” Skinner whispers in Dalish’s ear, pitched loud enough to be heard all through the room.

At Dalish’s bright giggle, Vivienne graces her with a bland look of attention.

“You’re a swordswoman, I saw!” Dalish says brightly. “What a coincidence, I’m an archer!”

Vivienne’s eyes drift towards the crystal affixed to Dalish’s bow. “I see. What a variety of talents we both possess.”

“Give it up, Vivvy. What’d _you_ come here for? See, we’re _friends_ here,” Sera mutters.

“As I said: to thank you for the gift, and to give one of my own. I know the Inquisitor keeps us in coin well enough you could afford new boots—”

“I’ve had shitty boots, I can _live_ with shitty boots, Jennies need coin more’n I need less-shitty boots—”

As smoothly as if Sera hadn’t interrupted her, Vivienne continues. “—but I took the liberty of ordering you a custom pair.” She pulls out a black box, elegant enough to house chocolates rather than leather (though shit, Bull _knows_ Vivienne has exquisite taste in leather) and sets it in front of Sera.

Sera scowls at it. “We’re not _friends_.”

“One good turn deserves another, dear.”

Sera bites her lip, gnaws at the corner of her mouth as she starts ripping into the present. She pulls out a pair of burnished leather boots, a rich brown with a luscious tannic smell that makes Bull’s mouth water. They have a padded collar and tongue and stacked heel, short and broad enough to stay comfortable, with a subtle honeycomb stitchwork that reveals itself in patterns of light and shadow.

Bull wouldn’t even fit them but he _wants_ those shoes.

“How’d you know my measures?” Sera asks, voice cracking.

“You are not the only one who knows how to ask people.” Vivienne sips her mead, sets down the glass. “It is not so different from what Josephine does.”

“Yeah, but she’s— she’s the least nobby of the nobs. She’s _real_.”

. . .

“That was a nice thing you did for Sera,” Bull says, working Vivienne’s high-heeled boots with a damp cloth. These are her Skyhold boots, soft leather with fine ornamental stitching and metallic inlay. They hardly need any attention, but. This is maintenance. And he’s happy to lavish it, kneeling on a cushion in front of Vivienne, cupping her heel under one hand and close enough to smell her perfume. Vanilla and sandalwood again, a hint of citrus somewhere in there. But warm, like distant spice from across the sea.

“Believe it or not, dear, I remember what it was like to have ill-fitted boots,” Vivienne says dryly. “And if Josephine chooses to grant her affections to that child, it is only fitting that Sera make _some_ respect to appearances. Even in spite of herself.”

“So you approve of them?”

Vivienne pauses, crossing her legs.

Bull starts drying the boot with a fresh cloth. He takes a dab of conditioning cream, massages it into the leather.

“Whether or not I approve is of little importance,” she says finally. “As heir to a family of somewhat fallen fortunes, Josephine is obligated to make a good marriage. She may permit herself affairs of the heart, but duty will win out.”

“That’s an awfully cynical view of it, ma’am.”

“Nobles do not have the luxury of loving freely, dear. If not discreet, a dalliance may offer a sign of weakness, or cast a target on their lover’s back. If more than a dalliance? A greater weakness. Josephine is aware of the consequences.”

Bull grunts, sinks himself into the rhythm of cleaning her boots. Small circles, the leather drinking cream in slow sips, her calves and ankles warm beneath the thin boots. Soothing, grounding. He could do a better job of it— a real job, he knows, elevated from mere shoeshine to full bootblack— if he were permitted to remove her boots, to pull her laces in one long slow tug, to touch his hands to her skin-warm stockings and to immerse himself fully in the task, but Vivienne’s layers are hers to undo.

“But dear, if you are up for it— I was considering a different game, tonight.”

His mouth waters with the smell of leather. “What do you have in mind, ma’am?”

“Suspension. No, not with ropes, dear— we have no suitable rafters and I cannot discreetly install a beam. With force magic, if you are amenable.”

Bull swallows. “Tempting. Ma’am, I have never done that with magic, before. What makes it different?”

“For a start, the restrictions are controlled by my will alone. No chafing, no fraying. It does require a greater degree of trust, I confess. Since we have not done other forms of restriction, I understand if you would rather not.”

“No, ma’am. I am interested.” He thinks of his limbs, bare, pulled to the ceiling without his control. Shivers, pulse hammering hot in his throat. “But I would like a blindfold. No gag.”

“You would feel better not seeing it happen?” she asks, faintly amused.

“Yes ma’am,” he says fervently.

“We do not have to, dear. You are not obligated to say ‘yes’ to my every suggestion.”

Bull chews the side of his cheek, considering his answer. “Ma’am, you ever— there’s a saying, somewhere. ‘If it excites you and scares the crap out of you at the same time, you should do it.’ Well, ma’am. I’m excited. I’m also scared shitless.”

“ _Language_ , dear,” she says, more rote than heat. “But sentiments appreciated.” She circles her toes, pulls her boot from his hands. “As always, I will treat play-resistance with utmost sincerity. If you say ‘no,’ or any other form of protest, I will stop. No questions necessary.”

He had never considered how intimate magic could be, this close. It smells of wet stone and sand, cool and powerful. Prickles down his spine as she sets the blindfold over his face, the same red sash she’d used when paddling him. It’s been washed, of course; still fresh with soap and flowers and something clean, alkaline. He stands before her and she stands behind him, her presence warm and electric at the same time as she touches his arms, his shoulders. Bids him to cross his forearms behind his back, to grip his elbows. Tsks at the strain in his shoulders, slides his hands so he grips his forearms instead. One small change that moves him from constricted to _compact_ , squarely in his body.

When she touches his arms though, _ah_. There it is. Cool lines of power ripple across his skin, like cords of water drawn about his biceps, his forearms. They cross over his shoulders and about his chest, doubling under the swell of his tits. Follow the trail of her nails and thumb, drawing substance from the force of her will. It’s strange to feel this pressure without weight, binding without the physical impact of rope— but exciting, too.

He breathes through his nose. Slow inhale. Slower exhale.

“How are you feeling, dear?” she asks, squeezing his hand. She tucks her thumb into the hollow of his palm, presses each finger individually.

“Good, ma’am. No tingling, no pain. Nothing numb.” He is stone, he is mountains. He is still.

“This is just preparation, mind. The final position will be you, suspended, face-down, but we can stop at any step.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She sets a hand on his ribs, pushes him into a slight bend. Touches her palm high on his back, in that web of invisible force strung between his arms and shoulders. He feels that subtle shift of power as an anchor, pulling him skyward, but she leaves it be. Instead she lowers herself behind him, runs her hands about his calf, his ankles. Skims her touch over his brace.

“Bull, would I be able to anchor around this brace, or should I find another position?”

“With respect, ma’am. I’ll be fine. But it’s better if the leg is kept straight.”

Vivienne makes a soft _hm_ in response, and he feels those cool cords of magic loop around his legs, just below the swell of his calf. That same prickle of presence without pressure, a sky-pull of tethered force, and she rises by his side.

“Dear, I will start lifting. Be prepared.”

“Yes ma’am,” he breathes.

She raises, or maybe it’s that he lifts, chest falling forward (but controlled, perfectly controlled, cut-glass elegance to her every movement) and he can feel his body pull, sag against the invisible bindings. His left leg extends behind him, the magic wrapped over the metal of his brace and above the bend of his knee, but the true suspension comes as his right foot slides back, a horizontal scuff of his boot against the floor before that too is elevated.

There’s a dizzying sense of panic, but. Vivienne is here, still touching, still soothing with her hand on his back, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin against his even when she does not touch. She bends his right leg at the knee, touches the back of his boot, where the tendons run, and that creates another point of attachment, now connected to the web of force crossing his back.

He’s rootless, shiftless, without contact to floor or stone, utterly reliant on those fragile points of suspension she’s created on his legs and back.

His breath comes faster now. Wet over his lips.

“Dear, are you still with me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he manages.

“I will raise your hips, now. The force will pass between your legs as part of this process.”

There’s some joke he could make about the force between his legs, but. Hard to think of it, his thoughts dissolving to breath and weight. He feels the ripple of power passing around his hips, under his belly. Between his legs, now, her hands an impersonal press against his pants, and he feels the not-pressure of the magic pressing to the insides of his thighs, framing his crotch. It pulls, elevates. His head rolls forward, weighted by his own horns.

“Dear, would you like me to raise your head as well?”

He swallows. Pulls himself back to some form of clarity. “No. No thank you, ma’am.” Face ties can be risky, and he doesn’t like the idea of his horns being pulled like this.

For now, it’s enough to hang, suspended. Hard to form words, to think through the ‘why’ of why he likes this, but. He trusts her in his helplessness, trusts to her utter mastery of form and magic. There’s a freedom in submission, the feeling of flying while his limbs still pull, sag. Heavy in his own skin as his thoughts dissolve to breath, his body exposed to the chill air and his own imagination. Her magic ripples over him like feathers, silk, a cool string of pearls across the back of his neck. Comfort like submersion in cool water.

A lacquered finger presses his lips. His mouth parts, obedient. She slips him a slice of fresh peach, lets him chew it quietly so the sun-touched fragrance seeps into his mouth and down his tongue. Then long silence, easy stretches in which he drifts in the cool prickle of his own thoughts. Her quill scratches, quiet and insistent: the usual correspondence to nobles, well-wishers, subtle cuts and maintaining the fragile relationships and alliances necessary to maintain her influence, even here in Skyhold.

He loses track of space, time.

Measures breath, pulse.

Breathes.

Occasionally, Vivienne rouses herself to check on him. She squeezes his hands, his fingers. Asks him how he feels.

He responds terse, monosyllabic. He’s good, he’s fine. No, nothing hurts.

(He resents those intrusions, sometimes. He is wave-washed stone, sunk in silence. Why disturb him?)

Her quill scratches to a halt.

Slowly, she returns him to himself. With words, with hands. His flesh still sags and pulls against the bonds of force, his weight concentrated over hips, chest, shoulders, but she rubs small circles into his muscle, undoes the magic around his hips. Slowly reverses each of the ties she’s made— he imagines it as an intricate weave of knots and unseen tensions, power tied to pattern. Each undone with a touch, his body sinking back to the ground. Feet-first, standing. Straightening up, then his arms undone. Blindfold removed.

She pushes him to sitting on her couch. Prepares mint tea with honey, presses the warm mug into his palms. Feeds him small hard cookies, dense with spice and pepper. Lets the warmth and sugar seep into him. Massages his horns with rosemary and lemon.

After, he asks what service he may offer for this gift of stillness.

“I have some handkerchiefs that need embroidering, darling.” He blinks; she smiles. “I trust you to learn what you need, and have it done.”

“Due when, ma’am?”

She drifts her gaze sideways, making an elaborate show of checking her calendar. Damn but he likes her showmanship. “Why don’t we call it a month?”

. . .

Bull barely has enough time to gather his supplies— needles are easy, embroidery thread still easy, a few patterns for monogrammed initials not so hard, but finding a fucking _embroidery hoop_ in Skyhold turns out to be a pain in the ass, until finally Krem (with a long-suffering sigh) takes Blackwall aside, explains what Bull needs, and Blackwall takes his amateur carpentry skill and turns out trio of perfectly serviceable embroidery hoops with brass screws— before the Boss asks Bull and the Chargers to go mop up Venatori stragglers in the Western Approach.

One problem though: Dalish’s arm is broken.

“ _Fell off roof?!_ ” Skinner bellows, so angry she drops words. When she’s really on a rant, she drops articles, pronouns, nouns. When beyond pissed, it boils down to one-word fragments, incoherent with rage.

“I was having cookies!” Dalish says, wide-eyed, pupils shrunk to pinpricks. The healers gave her some _good_ poppy.

“On roof!”

“That’s where Sera was!”

“Hey, don’t shove it off on _me_! How’s I supposed to know you’re clumsy?” Sera snaps, gnawing her wrist. Her nails are already bit down to stubs of nothing.

“Boss wants us in the Western Approach and we’re gonna need our archer,” Bull says grimly. “Any of the healer-mages take a look?”

Stitches grunts. “We heal it like that, gonna risk permanently weakening the arm. This one needs its own time.”

“Sera’s an archer!” Dalish pipes in.

“Not _that_ kind of archer!” Sera and Skinner chorus.

Skinner scowls. “Also, cannot pinch Sera’s arse.”

“Well, you _could_ , but then she’d stab you. With an arrow! ‘Cos she’s an archer!” Dalish falls into high-pitched giggles, pleased with herself. “What about Vivienne?”

“Cannot pinch her arse either,” Skinner says grimly.

“No, silly! She’s a swordswoman, but I bet she’d do _fantastic_!”

Bull blinks. Considers. “Not a bad idea. I’ll ask.”

Convincing Vivienne proves as simple as telling her the Chargers need her. Bull tries softening it by explaining really it’s that _Inquisitor Cadash_ was the one who asked the Chargers to go, but on account of them being short one archer, they need Vivienne, but—

“Of course, darling,” she says. Allows herself a fractional smile. “Though I am afraid I am no _archer_.”

“Understood, ma’am.”

Skinner sulks over not having Dalish along, but Rocky helpfully points out that it means no cold hands or feet on her belly at night. Skinner brightens. Marginally.

Krem continues his best impression of a tongue-tied twerp, managing choked grunts and strangled gasps of affirmation or denial whenever Vivienne directs a question his way. Thankfully, she elects to ignore him after the first few failures of communication.

It turns out to be fairly routine, all in all. The Inquisitor already smashed most of the Venatori during the mess at Adamant, and the remaining troops are in scattered camps that have little communication with one another. Vivienne makes an odd fit in their team, but she holds barriers and flings frost and at the end of the day that’s all that really matters.

The turning point comes when it’s Stitches’ night on watch. Bull sleeps fitfully at best in this arid waste, the badlands too dry and carrying unfamiliar soil to his nose, but jolts to full wakefulness when Stitches bellows _ambush, ambush_!

The Chargers sleep ready for action, weapons at hand and lightly armored when possible, but it’s still bad. Krem’s got his maul and shirt, but no pants as he faces off against two Venatori thugs with blades. Dalish has her knives and leather armor but no boots as she stabs a mage in the back. Vivienne—

Oh fuck.

Ma’am has a satin nightshift and lace robe, barriers erected in a shimmering veil that casts opalescence over her skin, seeps bright-jewelled color into the world around her. Her staff is her blade, her every bare step precise and assured.

Bull kicks a swordsman aside, swings— tries for a decapitation, but it lodges in the dying man’s neck and he struggles to pull his axe free. He dares to watch Vivienne take the field.

Step, step.

She phases through her nearest opponent on a wave of mana, frost glazing the ground. The man’s blade catches on her robe, rips the lace from shoulder to hem. But he halts, chilled, and she shatters him to diamond fragments, glittering destruction.

Turn, step.

A wall of ice springs in place, traps the Venatori against a boulder and allows a gasping Grim to scuttle backwards on his ass. The spear that had pressed his throat is still caught in the ice.

Shuffle, spin.

Her blade locks with the enemy combatant who had tried flanking her.

Bull shakes his head, finally rips his axe away with a red squelch of meat and bone. Takes two heavy steps to help Ma’am out of this mess, but her challenger stomps at her bare knee with his heavy boots, and then—

Her barrier explodes in a burst of wild magic, turning him to frost where he stands. His boot hangs frozen in midair.

The rest of the ambush goes about as well as expected. Some of their would-be attackers try fleeing, but Skinner’s throwing knives make short work of _that_.

“Good job, boys! And ma’am,” Bull grunts, clapping Krem on the back and giving Vivienne a deep bow. Might as well use the pleasantries she taught him.

Krem unswallows his tongue. Still pantsless, he dips his head towards Vivienne’s rent gown. “Thank you, ma’am. Shame about your gown.”

Vivienne stops running her fingers along the torn edges, face implacably still. Shit.

“A sacrifice willingly made, considering our lives,” she replies evenly.

Krem shakes his head. “Appreciated, ma’am. It’s just— that’s Antivan lace. Two yards costs a month’s wages and it’s a shame to see it ruined.”

Her expression softens. Fractionally. “A sacrifice willingly made.”

They spend the rest of the trip talking pretty clothes and craftsmanship, a tenuous respect based on their performance in the field and the fact that, as Vivienne puts it, “so few appreciate quality tailoring.” Bull dozes off when they talk of brushing and pressing the clothes, the painstakingly applied appliques and beaded embellishments and minute adjustments of the hem, but always wakes up early enough to make tea for everyone. Ma’am gets the first cup, of course— his service hasn’t ended just because they’re out wrecking Venatori, after all— but Bull makes sure Krem gets the second cup so they can continue their conversation away from the rest of the Chargers’ milling breakfast routine.

. . .

Bull buys rounds when he gets back— the Chargers more than earned it, and it’s damn cruel to shut Dalish out just because she couldn’t make it, and Vivienne’s invited too of course, and Sera invites herself.

It’s a good night, is what it is. Even if Sera scowls at finding herself seated across from Vivienne, with Skinner and Dalish obtrusively not-helping as Sera tries bringing up pointed conversation about ‘little people’ and the nobs who don’t give a damn.

“Dear, we came back from an exceedingly tedious excursion dealing with Venatori whom, I assure you, give far less care about the ‘little people’ than any of us present,” Vivienne says evenly, setting down her glass so it chimes against the table. No ale for her; instead some lesser Orlesian vintage that she had sniffed and pronounced ‘passable,’ which is damningly high praise considering the rest of Cabot’s stock. “And if it matters so much to you, I can assure you I know my tailor and each of her assistants by name, as well as the maids who press and pleat and fold my clothing. If you can do the same for the craftsmen whose work provided _your_ attire, I will be much surprised.”

“That’s the shitty thing!” Sera explodes, slamming her hands to the table and sending Rocky yelping to rescue his mug. “You’re not— you’re just— _ugh!_ ” She scowls furiously, eyes scrunched tight and nose red, shining. “How can you act like you’re so _above it_ when you’re about as real as— as— _shit_!” Her voice hiccups out into a high-pitched wail, shoulders heaving.

“What’s eating you?” Bull asks, thumping a hand across Sera’s shoulder. Hard enough to rock her, let her know he’s there, steady. Close enough to scruff her by the collar if he has to.

“Josephine’s fucking _engaged_!”

“Congratulations!” Dalish says brightly.

Skinner grimaces, smacking Dalish’s (uninjured) arm.

“Not to _me_ , you ninny! To some nob she’s never met!”

“Stab him?” Skinner offers.

Dalish tugs Skinner’s sleeve, shaking her head.

“Can’t stab him without piffling Josie’s family! The family she’s worked so hard for, getting all their trades lined up nice’n rosy and always on about alliances and— and—” Sera starts hiccuping.

Vivienne takes a sip of wine, eyes smooth as water. “How does Josephine feel about this?”

“She doesn’t _want_ to marry him!”

Vivienne nods once, decisively. “Then the best course of action would be to research codes of conduct and precedent. Investigate the man’s holdings, find reasons to break the betrothal and prove he’s an unsuitable match.” She drums her fingers against the table, nails clicking. “Her family is not so fallen of fortune that they need accept _all_ comers, after all. Their daughter’s happiness will still be paramount.”

“But that’ll take _forever_!” Sera cries.

Skinner mimes stabbing again. “Duel him?”

Sera brightens up.

Vivienne sighs. “Sera, no.”

“But honor! True love! Also, I hate your idea.”

Vivienne frowns. “If you insist on dueling Josephine’s fiancee— without causing her family to lose status, mind— then at least learn to do it _properly_.”

Sera crosses her arms, gnawing her lip. “I tell him to shove off, poke a sword at him, what’s the problem?”

“Do you know how to use a sword?” Rocky asks, in the spirit of scientific inquiry.

“Do you know if he will be expecting Orlesian, Antivan, or Nevarran dueling customs?” Vivienne asks, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Did you know Otranto is the fifth most highly ranked duelist on the Antivan National Dueling Circuit?” Blackwall asks, leaning against the table.

Everyone except Bull turns to look at him.

(There’s a _reason_ Bull picks a spot where he can watch the room, but Bull wasn’t about to ruin Blackwall’s dramatic entrance.)

“What? I talk to Lady Montilyet too,” Blackwall grumbles into the silence.

Sera chews her lips. “Fifth out of… five?” she guesses.

Vivienne sighs. “If you wish to best him, we best begin training immediately.”

“We?!” Sera yelps.

Vivienne favors her with a withering look. “Regardless of our _personal_ grievances, Josephine remains a dear friend. If breaking this engagement will prevent her from spiraling into a beautifully-hidden facade of utterly professional charm over her grieving heart, then _yes_. Of course I am helping.” She bares her teeth. “Was that sufficiently dramatic for you?”

“...a little, yeh,” Sera acknowledges.

Bull decides the ladies don’t need any further input— not with Sera’s enthusiasm, Vivienne’s dry professionalism, and Skinner’s positive _glee_ at the idea that Sera might get to stab a noble with impunity— and, well, Blackwall’s got his hand on the back of Bull’s neck, massaging just-so, and one thumb tracing up the base of his horns, and Bull decides fuck this, he needs _input_.

So he hauls ass from the tavern, ruffles Krem’s hair on the way out, and leads the way to his bedroom because he really doesn’t want to pull hay from his ass-crack. Again.

They fall together, easy and comfortable as a pair of overstuffed pillows. Fuck but that’s strange, how easy it is to fall together, habits and preferences tracing old tracks. Blackwall grips his shoulders, pulls him down into an awkward kiss, noses bumping and his beard tickling Bull’s chin, but it’s nice. Eases to something familiar as they find their stride, as the clothes go tumbling and Bull breaks into laughter as Blackwall trips backwards onto the bed, legs spread and cock bobbing between his legs like a _Randy Dowager_ centerfold.

“Are you going to laugh all day or are you going to…?” Blackwall mimes towards his cock.

Bull snickers, kissing the salt-and-pepper hairs on Blackwall’s belly. Tilts his face so they rasp against his cheek. “Are you gonna pout all day, or are you going to…?” He mimes thrusting his hips, straddling Blackwall’s thighs. Then inspiration strikes and he laughs again, long and full. “Lift your ass, I wanna try something.”

Blackwall lifts his hips obligingly, allowing Bull to slide a cushion beneath him. “Kinky asshole.”

“Ah, yes, comfy sex. The kinkiest of all sex,” Bull deadpans. “I want to ride your cock, unless…?” He cocks an eyebrow, waits.

Blackwall chuckles, lacing his hands under his head, elbows sprawled out to the side. “As long as you’re doing the work, so be it.”

“Lazy old man,” Bull grumps, fishing the lube from under the bed. He pours a generous slick over his palms, rubbing it to skin-warmth. Grips Blackwall’s cock, the smaller man’s dick almost vanishing in the curve of his palm, and twists, tugs. Pulls upright, mouth hanging open as he reaches behind himself to trace his fingers down the cleft of his ass, then to probe. He goes slow, slow— slower than he wants to, really, but Bull’s not ambidextrous. Better to go slow for now, one finger pressing the rim of his asshole, the others curved back and smearing lube all over while he pumps Blackwall’s cock with the other hand.

“Old, eh? I can live with that. As long as you don’t call me ‘daddy,’” Blackwall murmurs, so soft that it takes one choked half-second for Bull to catch on and start sputtering.

“Dammit! How the fuck— how the fuck am I supposed to fuck if you’re making me _laugh_?” he wheezes, fingers stuttering to a halt as he doubles over. Barely enough presence of mind to _let go_ of Blackwall’s cock, to catch himself on the bed so he won’t squash the other man like an overripe grape.

Blackwall snorts, scratching Bull’s horns. “What, like you’ve never laughed during sex?”

“During, sure! Not while I’m trying to _lube up my asshole_ , you asshole!” Bull protests, butting his head against Blackwall’s hand.

Blackwall opens his mouth, tongue over his lips. Eyebrows quirked.

Bull takes the invitation, shuffling forward on his knees so his cock presses against the lower swell of Blackwall’s mouth, pushing over the edge in a shallow thrust. Blackwall swirls his tongue, probing up along the slit, and wraps his lips over the tip of Bull’s cock. His mouth covers hardly more than the tip, not unless Bull were to move forward, but fuck. It’s enough to tease, to draw his breath out in a long shudder. Enough to keep Blackwall mercifully _quiet_ (but not silent, not with the sloppy wet sounds of his mouth and tongue enough to drive Bull wild) as Bull finishes lubing up his ass. He’s got enough slick there he can slip a finger down to the first knuckle now, can ease a second alongside the first. Might even try for a third, except Blackwall’s panting against his cock, bucking his hips against Bull’s thighs, and patience is a virtue except when it isn’t.

Bull pulls back from Blackwall’s mouth, braces one hand against the headboard and grips his ass with the other, spreading his cheeks. Blackwall reaches down between his legs, forearm brushing Bull’s cock— and _shit_ even the weird tickle of his hair against Bull’s cock is hot— and gripping the base of his hardon, angling up as Bull eases himself down.

Oh fuck _yes_.

Blackwall’s not the biggest cock Bull’s ever been on, neither the thickest or the longest, but _fuck_ it feels good as Blackwall tilts his hips, a comfortable fit that hits just where Bull likes. Not gonna stretch him out or leave him sore, but enough heft for a comfortable rhythm as Bull dips, bends. Bull sets his hands on the headboard, tries an experimental bounce that makes Blackwall’s eyes go wide, so wide that Bull’s afraid he might have _broken_ the man, but then Blackwall grabs his thighs, squeezes into the meaty flesh just below the hip and rocks forward, up. He matches Bull stroke for stroke, and it takes a little bit of jostling, skin slapping skin and a couple grunts and choked laughs before they find their rhythm.

Size difference means it’s awkward to kiss Blackwall like this, when Bull’s gotta bend himself damn near in half and risk goring the pillow in the bargain, but when he leans over his cock bounces against Blackwall’s chest, almost up to the other man’s chin.

“So… got an idea,” Bull drawls. “How’s your neck?”

“Just fine. What’s your idea?”

Bull grins, sitting back and helping Blackwall raise his shoulders so they can fit another pillow beneath him. Bull’s seen furniture at some of the really _good_ brothels that helps people keep this kind of position, but pillows and cushions are just fine for now. Blackwall’s ass might not need the padding, but his back will thank him by morning.

“Suck my cock?” Bull asks cheerily.

Blackwall snorts, rolling his eyes but opening his mouth readily enough. And _fuck_ that makes a great fucking difference, because now when Bull slides _forward_ it’s into that wonderful wet melt of mouth and tongue, Blackwall’s grip circling the base of his cock, and when Bull slides _back_ it’s onto the solid warmth of Blackwall’s cock, hard enough to feel Blackwall’s balls jounce against his ass. Push and pull, and Bull caught between.

Blackwall’s gasping, sharp snuffs of air as he exhales through his nose, face red as he pushes, thrusts. His hair’s all up in harsh angles, every direction different and Bull’s rooted in skin and leather and the quaking pulse of his heart, all his arteries lit up blazing and brain fogged and fuck, like fuck, he’s got so little control of himself now except for one crystalline thought amidst the fog: he will _not_ come first, dammit, he will _not_ come first, won’t come until Blackwall does—

Blackwall’s mouth hangs open, tongue trying to shape words around the swell of Bull’s cock but even that’s obscenely, fantastically hot as the vowels get lost somewhere around licking and sucking. Whatever he was trying to say, instead he squeezes Bull’s thigh, hard enough his fingers carve divots into Bull’s skin, body jolting up, up, and Bull senses before he feels it, the full-body shudder and arc of Blackwall’s body before the warm rush of semen leaves him, goes hot and deep inside Bull’s ass.

And Bull did _not_ come first, so he finally lets himself go, pulls back to let himself spatter against Blackwall’s chin and chest. Thinks Blackwall’d look fucking hot, wet and messy and covered in cum, but Blackwall hates when Bull goes on his face so this is the closest Bull gets to come.

(Heh. Gets to cum.)

“Oof. Get off me, you heavy thing,” Blackwall chuckles, wiping the mess off his beard.

Bull snickers, leaning forward to kiss Blackwall’s forehead (and, not accidentally, to bop his softening cock against Blackwall’s chest) before sliding off him. Blackwall’s cock slips from his ass with a limp pop, wet and spent, and Bull already has the ticklish drip of lube and cum between his thighs.

Skyhold may have many other faults, but at least those ancient elves knew their plumbing.

“Race you to the bath?” Bull offers.

Blackwall rolls his eyes. “No. I’ll _meet_ you at the bath, but I’m not _racing_ you. Have mercy.”

So Bull takes mercy on Blackwall’s age and only drops the soap twice.


	4. Amends with Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Embroidery, a duel, and certainty in change.

“Foot forward, weight balanced, step and _thrust_. Control, Sera. The rapier is a weapon with reach, excellent for cut-and-thrust, less so for wild slashing.”

Sera spits in the dirt, dragging the back of her sleeve across her forehead. “The shite is this! All I got to do is get _one_ good hit on him…”

Vivienne’s face remains impassive as she parries and ripostes in a single, fluid motion, her blunted weapon tapping the front of Sera’s jerkin. “If he does not hit you first.”

“How in arse are you gonna make an overnight duelist out of an archer?” Sera wails, snot and tears streaked down her face.

Vivienne lowers her blade and sighs, tugging a handkerchief from her pocket. “You are, despite your appearance, a quality like fresh silk. You need only an expert to lay the thread.” Sera honks noisily into the handkerchief, wadding it up and about to offer it back. Vivienne’s lip twitches. “No, dear, you keep that.”

“You always do this— this— _arsebiscuit_!” Sera spits, crossing her arms. The rapier wobbles erratically in her hands, tracing whorls in the dirt, and Bull takes a smart step back with his tea. “You rip down before you build up, and it’s just! We don’t gotta take it, _I_ don’t gotta take it, and if you’re only offering to _help_ because you get to make all your prickle-bit words, _then I don’t need your help_!”

Sera clutches her ribs, wheezing, and drops her rapier in a puff of dirt. For several long moments the only sound is her breathing, and the occasional rustle of the breeze stirring Vivienne’s robes in the grey morning.

“I apologize, then. My aid was sincerely intended,” Vivienne says finally. “I truly would not have offered if I thought you did not have potential.”

“Then why you always gotta punch down when you’re doing it?”

“Flaws must be exposed before they can be remedied, and sentimentality should never cloud judgment,” she says evenly. “It was not my intent to be cruel, but to explain that you have _much_ more than a simple rattle of swords to not only deter Lord Otranto, but to demonstrate your worth to Josephine’s family. You do not think they will hear of this duel, regardless of outcome, and wonder just who dares to challenge for their daughter’s hand? You are an elf without title or holdings, with two changes of trousers and whom until recently did not even have a pair of well-fitted _shoes_.”

Sera’s lip wobbles, face red and screwing somewhere between tears and rage, but Vivienne continues through the budding tantrum.

“And— you make Josephine _happy_. If she can give her heart freely, without fear of reprisal or dishonor, then _yes_. Of course I wish you both happiness.”

Sera hiccups into the silence.

Bull surreptitiously touches the rim of one cup. At this rate, the tea’s going cold before they finish their training.

“Can you just— can you not be such a _nob_ about it, then?” Sera asks, voice cracking.

Vivienne exhales, shoulders sinking. “My apologies. Though if, perhaps, I were to advise you on your manners and clothing, would that still be considered too much?”

Sera gnaws her cheek. “If you’re— if you’re trying to, like, polish me for Josie’s family, I can deal. Otherwise, shove off.” Her lip wobbles.

Vivienne dips her head. “Very well. Shall we break for tea?”

Bull takes his cue, stepping forward so Sera and Vivienne may take their cups. The bright lemon smell lingers in his nostrils.

. . .

Bull sprawls against a tree, basket of embroidery next to him and Krem patiently handing him a spool of embroidery floss. Bull had agonized over the color, finally choosing a dark blue-gray the color of sea before storm. It’ll have a nice sheen to it, once he gets the satin stitch worked right. At least Krem had taken mercy on him and marked the monogrammed ‘VdF’ in tailor’s chalk. Krem had even offered to do the embroidery for Bull, but Bull declined. That’d just defeat the whole point of the service anyway.

“She is a woman who deserves to be worshiped,” Krem murmurs, rustling through the pattern sheets. He lingers over a particularly nice design of Andraste’s Grace, which Bull had rejected as too difficult for his limited skills.

Bull grunts. “She’s a lady.”

Krem sighs, voice soft with reverence. “I know.”

Bull shakes his head, biting his tongue as he pierces the fabric. “I mean she is a lady. A _person_. Probably not whomever you’ve built in your head.”

“Like you are exactly what you show?” Krem says without heat. He picks up a design for a bouquet of flowers and draws one of his own handkerchiefs taut over one of the embroidery hoops. Starts chalking the design. “I know I’m not in love, Bull. That’s stupid, since I barely started speaking to her.” His hand falters, and he licks his lip to dab at a smudge of chalk. “But I’d like to learn enough about her to fall in love, and that’s not stupid. That’s _courtship_.”

“She doesn’t even like Dorian because he’s a Vint, and he’s—”

“Got class?” Krem says. He threads his needle with a single, savage tug. “Ma’am doesn’t like most people, I’ve noticed. But like’s not the same as _respect_. And I’m not Dorian.”

Bull winces, sucking his fingers. “Wasn’t saying that,” he mumbles around his mouthful of fingers. Doesn’t taste blood, so at least he didn’t prick deep. “Her—- she keeps her cards close, so maybe you didn’t know. Her lover died. I don’t think she’ll be looking for anything fresh.”

“Doesn’t stop you making her tea,” Krem says.

Bull sighs. Watches a dwarf in hideous plaideweave britches pick flowers across the meadow. “Yeah, but that’s— that’s service. Ma’am and I both know that’s it. It’s taking care.”

“And she takes care of you?”

Bull shifts. Thinks of the paddle cutting the air, the weight and sag of his limbs, suspended.

“Yeah. It’s not love, but it’s care.”

“Maybe that’s what I need, then.” Krem stitches his way through the pattern, a steady rhythm of chains and knots and feather-light touch that makes Bull’s fingers throb in sympathy. “She _cares_. You know how few nobles give a shit that someone has to embroider and press and pleat their gowns? I’ve asked her maids, you know. She remembers their birthdays and gives them Satinalia gifts and it’s not— maybe it’s not sentimental or soppy, but fuck it. You try to make love to the world, you just get pneumonia.”

A long pause. The dwarf across the meadow tugs at a cluster of bright red flowers, hard enough that he lands on his ass when they come free.

“So, in this example, are _you_ the one making love to the world, or is—” Bull begins.

Krem kicks Bull’s shin. “She’s got reasons to be reserved, I respect that. But people aren’t _disposable_ to her.” He sets down his embroidery, lets out a long sigh and massages his temples. “It’s— it’s like high-end tailoring, alright? You might reuse bits and pieces, like a scrap of lace or a particularly nice bit of embroidery, sew it onto a new fabric or cut down an old dress to make something new. If you treat everything like it’s trash as soon as you’re done, you end up eating more cost than it’s worth. Orlesian fashion is shit because it cycles trends so quickly, but ma’am doesn’t follow trends.”

“Trends may come and go, but _style_ is timeless,” Cadash declares, clutching his bouquet of flowers and gesturing dramatically skyward. An impressive statement, doubly so because of the plaideweave britches. He lowers his arm, waggling his eyebrows at the stunned Krem. “Couldn’t help overhearing, just want to wish you luck!”

“Any more words of wisdom, ser?” Krem whispers, cheeks pink. He can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the britches.

“Hrm.” Cadash crosses his arms behind his back, puffing out his chest. “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women— and assorted nonaffiliated genders— merely players. We have our exits and our entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts.” His chest deflates, and he stabs a stubby finger into Krem’s chest, chuckling. “Many parts. We make and break and remake ourselves, no two bits about it. The only way we keep from destroying ourselves is with self-care. Indulgence. _Maintenance_ , if you will.” He bows deeply. “I wish you luck, and never let what you were distract you from what you could be! Farewell, young friend, and may fortune speed your feet!”

Dramatic monologue over, he exits with a waddling run. Bull half-expects to see a bear pursuing him.

“....what was that?” Krem whispers, eyes wide.

Bull rolls his eyes. “That was the Boss, Krem. You’ve met him before.”

“I mean, what was he _saying_?”

“Some Fereldan play. Can’t tear the Boss away from the penny shows.”

“...and he’s wooing Dorian?”

“The Vint finds him charming.”

Krem breaks into wheezing laughter, shoulders heaving. “Well. As long as they’re happy.”

. . .

Bull watches Sera’s duel, of course. He even brings a bowl of popcorn and offers it to bystanders as Sera dodges and ducks and dances and drops dirty words like grenades while utterly failing to hit her opponent, but the _real_ show comes after Josephine interrupts, after Otranto makes his grandiose speech and his sweeping bow (and the Boss eats that up like brandied pralines, and Bull just _knows_ he’ll be practicing that dramatic flourish, that splayed-hands gesture for _weeks_ on end and it’ll be hilariously insufferable) and Josephine and Sera clasp hands like something out of the penny plays.

The real show comes when Sera confronts Vivienne in the tavern.

“ _You were expecting me to fail!”_

“No, dear. You _won._ You won what _mattered_.”

“You and your snaky-bitey _pep talks_ and ‘oh you can do it’ and then he fucking _drubs me blue_!” Sera bellows, slamming her fists onto the table.

(Bull offers Krem popcorn. Krem declines.)

“But you _won_.” Vivienne raises two fingers, beckoning, and Cabot knows well enough by now to bring two glasses of mead. “I do not waste my time on failures, Sera. I never said you would beat Otranto, only that you would _win_.”

“But you said— you were supposed to be my _friend_ and you were just playing your Game shit! On _me_!”

Vivienne sighs, leaning forward on her forearms. “I believe in your tenacity, your dedication, and your quick wit— albeit regrettably attuned to mischief. Given more than a fortnight, you could become a more than an acceptable duelist. But we had only the time we had.”

“Then what about the rest of your shit, about her family and them nobs being all too up their noses to even _look_ at me kissing Josie?”

Vivienne sips her mead, dabs her lips. “You are of the Inquisitor’s inner circle, dear. That is social currency you could spend for years to come.”

“Why can’t you ever— _augh_! Why can’t you ever be _wrong_ about shit!”

Bull sprays kernels, snickering. “Ma’am never figured Dorian and the Boss together.”

“Nor you and Blackwall, but I am not omniscient,” Vivienne says drily, lips turned up past the rim of her glass. “I do not regret the error.”

. . .

Bull’s reward for six perfectly monogrammed handkerchiefs is a cup of tea, a warm orange spice with honey, and two crisp ginger biscuits, the type that leave the mouth tingling for more. And an offer.

“Excellent work, Bull,” she says, tracing her thumb over the satin finish of the letters, the careful feathered stitching along the edge. “And excellent work deserves recognition. I have given you pain for the sake of pain, but would you like pain as a reward?”

His cock stirs, thumps against his britches. “Yes, ma’am.”

Again, she prepares him; ties a red scarf over his eyes, reminds him to clench and unclench his fist if he requires a halt, presses the cloth gag into his mouth, sweet and bitter with dried herbs. Bends him over her desk, taps her foot against his ankles to have him spread, lower himself. Her presence is a whip, heels clicking the floor, steel and certainty in her voice.

“You grant control because you fear losing it, dear. This may be a submission, but it is also a choice. Raise your right hand, and we will begin when you lower it again.”

Fresh start and new beginnings, his body a canvas for her tools. He raises his hand, feels the heft and sag of skin, flesh, tugging against the bone, and lowers it to the table. Braces himself, thumbs curled under the edge of the wood, fingers dug into the grain.

The first blow lands, then the second. Soft as raindrops, almost disappointing as he sags against the desk. The third and fourth follow in rapid succession, barely more than a _paff_ against the seat of his pants, something that stirs breath, fabric, but little else.

He almost raises his hand, almost makes the signal to stop, to discuss, to renegotiate, but then—

Like thunder from a clear blue sky, like a sudden storm off the sea, the next moment pays for all.

It hits him hard and sweet, stinging. That perfect upward strike, the red burn against grey flesh, the heat and smack of it rooting him back to skin, to flesh. All the blood pulled, pooled, suffused.

“That was just the warm-up, darling,” Vivienne chuckles, one palm on his back, cool nails prickling skin. She trails a finger down his ribs, his spine, spans her hand across the bridge of his back and he can feel the twist of her body, the brace against his skin as she swings herself into the next blow.

This next strike lands higher, overlapping the previous. Rippling layers of pain, the new-struck flesh nothing next to the rekindled heat of the old. It stings, prickles, flows. She hits again, again, each fresh smack a test, a promise, a faith he can go to breaking and come back.

It hurts, of course— pain is an old friend, closer than a shadow and its caster, but pain isn’t the point. It hurts, it hurts— it hurts when she changes sides, when she breaks new ground. It hurts when she shifts angle, position, when she digs her nails into the small of his back and pulls back for a strike so powerful it rocks him on his toes, sends his chin thumping to her desk, and she rubs his back in circles and doesn’t continue until he gathers enough control to straighten himself out, to raise himself on his hands once more. It hurts when his eyes sting with tears, salt blotted against the blindfold. It hurts even when she lowers the intensity, back to those soft nothing-strikes she had used before, but by now the skin is so tender that even these little blows of _nothing_ throb and tingle.

It hurts, it hurts.

But this isn’t about endurance, or proving himself to be mountain or stone.

It’s the way his body throbs himself new after each blow, the fresh feel of limbs and skin. It’s the way the gag fills his mouth, warm and wet and organic, his own saliva blotted in its folds. It’s the warm vanilla and sandalwood smell of Vivienne’s perfume, the way she strokes his neck and shoulders, the way she breaks the pain into pattern, never more than he can handle, never more than he can take. Echoes inside himself like a shell, the waves that calls him home.

There is a space beyond fear. Certainty.

She is the sea— sea erodes stone, mountains.

There is a certainty in change.

. . .

After, as always, there is tea, sugar and snacks. Warmth and sweetness, a cool cloth for his ass and Vivienne massaging his horns with balm. He murmurs ‘thank you, thank you,’ over and over again, because this is how you show gratitude, recognition that this was a _gift_ , but she laughs and scratches his scalp, and he nearly swoons with the gentle friction.

“You are welcome,” she says, simply.

He is not thanking her for the pain, but the things shaped from the pain, after the pain— comfort, certainty, familiarity. A promise that he can stay in his skin, can always come back, that nothing is beyond building after the breaking.

And maybe, truly, this is what she needs too.

. . .

Bull takes a fortnight to consider it, mulling it over as he presses coffee, brews tea, stirs sugar. Trades blows on the practice field with Krem, grunts and considers blame, guilt, accusation. Even brings it to bed with Blackwall, stroking his thighs and feeling Blackwall’s whiskery snores against his chest as Bull counts possibilities against the ceiling.

Finally, Bull wakes up one morning, prepares the coffee, and brings it to Krem.

“Tell Ma’am I’m not feeling well,” he says to Krem’s blanched face. Gently, he takes the man’s hand and uncurls his fingers, one by one. Presses the cup to his hand.

Vivienne arrives fifteen minutes later.

Ma’am is too much of a professional to claw her hands, to clench her fists, to do any of the normal tells that Bull would look for, but— there is a coldness in her eyes. Punched out certainty.

“You presume much,” she says, arms crossed, chin high. All the careful, creaking control of a glacier.

Bull lowers his shoulders, presses his open palms against his sides. “My apologies, ma’am. I did send your coffee.”

“You offered _service_ , not mere coffee.”

Bull wets his lips. “I offered what I thought you needed.”

A long pause, a chill that cuts bone. “It is dangerous to presume.”

“Krem deeply admires you. I was not offering him as _service_ , not without your consent, but in hope that you might appreciate someone with such sincere admiration.” He picks his words like a jeweller, tries to offer substance beyond sparkle. “Serving you is an honor and a privilege.”

“And what do you think Krem sees in me? Some fantasy of a noblewoman?” Her lips curl, too much control to be a snarl. “He sees mirrors and thinks he sees truth.”

“With respect, ma’am, that is because you only show mirrors.”

Her face goes still, and he realizes too late his error.

What is all this service and control if not baring herself, in some small way? If even Bull, _Hissrad_ , cannot see that this is as much vulnerability as she will allow anyone?

“I do not mean to mistake reserve for lack of feeling, ma’am,” he says. Quiet, soft, and if he was a jeweler with his words then now he must be a tailor, try to salvage something from these broken threads. “I mean that he is young, not stupid. He wants to _court_ you, to find out more.”

“He is a Tevinter deserter without land, title, or connections that augment my own,” she says, soft and tuneless. Vivienne presses her lips thin. “When Bastien and I began courting, we received bards and assassins. My enemies have hardly dwindled with time.”

Bull swallows. He runs his tongue along his teeth, forces his breath through his nostrils. Gentle, careful as probing a sore tooth, he says, “Krem is not helpless.”

“No. But that does not mean it is worth our while,” Vivienne says evenly. She dips her head at him, a clear gesture of dismissal— never mind that they’re in _his_ quarters— and the conversation is over.

. . .

Even in her anger she cools, some violent exhale as she declines his offerings of tea and coffee for the next day. She does not _need_ his service after all, sends him away while sipping her own cup, a thick black drink that prickles with pepper and ginger.

Bull considers volunteering for punishment, tithe paid in pain and flesh. He could bend over her desk, head bowed, grit his teeth as she metes a beating until he can’t stand. But no, absolutely not. To act like those previous beatings had been out of anything but care would do them both disservice, would diminish what little they have left.

He buys rounds for Krem, half-formed apology fermenting in his mouth, but words are all bullshit anyway. They drink their drinks, they laugh, they talk, and Bull fits the pieces in his head. Two separate jigsaws, and to break the pieces is to break the whole.

“Did you ever think, maybe, that it’s not _your_ problem to fix?” Krem asks, deep in his cups, lips wet and eyes bleary.

Bull considers. Scratches his shoulders against the wall, considers again. “No.”

“Lady Vivienne is _your_ Ma’am. I could’ve said no, but—” Krem crinkles his nose, wipes his palm on his knee. “Those drinks you give her? That’s your service, not my courtship. It was wrong to mix them.”

Bull nods, clinks his mug against Krem’s with a slosh of solidarity. “Yep.”

“She’s not— she doesn’t _owe_ me any reasons, not if she doesn’t want to. A ‘no’ is enough. But. She didn’t _say_ ‘no.’ Did she? To you?”

Bull thinks of leather, of roses. Of the luxury of a heart able to love freely.

“You’re right. It’s not my problem to fix,” he says, but he keeps talking anyway.

. . .

Krem gathers a bouquet of blue and purple hyacinths, and ties them with a yellow ribbon. Bull watches Krem ascend the stairs to Vivienne’s balcony, then sneaks behind a bookshelf, hunkering down and straining his ears as best he can.

Low voices. Could be good, could be bad. Ma’am isn’t the type to raise her voice when angry.

Krem says something. Vivienne says something.

Something something.

“All I can offer is a target on your back, dear,” Vivienne says, not unkindly.

Krem says something. Something something.

Vivienne laughs. Good sign.

Finally, Krem says, “All I’m asking is a chance to try, ma’am.”

A long pause. “Very well. If you are content with a chance, then... yes. I accept.”

Bull exhales. Big exhale. Sags against the bookshelf, head falling forward with the weight of relief even as Vivienne calls, “Bull, will you stop skulking?”

“Sorry, ma’am!” he hollers, standing up and brushing imaginary book-dust from his pants. He winks at a shocked librarian, flexes a pec for her, and walks up the stairs. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“Why don’t you make amends with tea?”

Krem grins, and Bull chuckles as he starts brewing.

Everything will be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *flings confetti* Beat the 2 updates/week goal, so here we are! I promised it would be all posted by the second week of November and I am glad to keep that promise!
> 
> Thank you for the kind comments and flailing, I am so glad that my rarepair kink prompt fic was lucky enough to have such a warm reception. <3 <3 <3 <3


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